London Blues
by Sachita
Summary: Mason has never been what the majority considers as normal, but sometimes he likes to think of what his life would have looked like if he were.


_Hi everyone! This is just a little vignette about Mason and how he came to be what he is. Hope you like it- and I am always happy about reviews :-) They make my day._

_Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the show "Dead like me" _ .

_Sachita :-)  
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><p><strong>London Blues<strong>

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><p>Mason has never been what the majority considered normal. He hasn't always been Mason either- he has had a name. Not Mason, he has become Mason later in life. First, he was a bright-eyed boy with a shock full of dark blond hair, growing up scabby-kneed and always longing for the next scrape of food in the suburbs of London.<p>

He remembers it in bits and pieces now- just flashes of the street, of a woman with a tired smile and her hair in a heavy knot- his mother; a girl with a reddish-brown ponytail and dark inquisitive eyes- his sister. Her name was Mary. It feels odd to him, sometimes, that he is twenty-seven years old and the childhood memories fade already.

But in reality he is already an old man. Sometimes he stops in front of a mirror when he happens to pass one- he has never been one to look into mirrors for too long- and he touches his face with his fingers, feels the small wrinkles around his eyes and wonders how he would look if they were deep creases. He touches his brown mess of hair and wonders whether it would still feel like that if it were grey and steadily thinning. When he looks long enough he sees an old man staring back at him- it's not so much about the way he doesn't look, but it's in his eyes. His eyes could belong to an old man, he likes to think.

Sometimes those reflections leave him shaky and weak and he turns quickly to go, always on the hunt for a bottle of whisky or anything that strikes his fancy. Anything alcohol-like. He doesn't mind drugs either. Immortality's gotta have some side benefits, right? Like not dying of a drug overdose. Or not dying while searching for the permanent high.

When he first told her how he had died, George stared at him, wide-eyed. "What is wrong with you, Mason?" she cried and he nearly laughed- what was wrong with him, indeed. "I was looking for the permanent high," he said with a wide smile and an extra dose of the Mason charm. George raised her eyebrows at him like she always did when she was part-horrified, part-astonished. For a minute, she was silent- talking to herself in her head, probably, like she always did but would never admit to- and then she turned away, shaking her head.

"Alright, Mason, let's go."

Ah, George. A big selfish part of him is glad that she has died for he would have never met her otherwise. In a way she is his best friend, but he has never told her as much. He remembers that Trip guy who hurt her so much in a kind of helpless anger- when he first realised what had happened he wanted to do something horrific to that ne'er-do-well. Get Rube to get the higher-ups to get him a post-it for the guy. However, there are simply too many "gets" in that sentence and Mason has never been friends with the word "get". He wonders what George would say if he told her about it. Maybe she'd just raise her eyebrows at him and shake her head. Maybe she'd scream at him, scold him or maybe she'd be okay with it. He will never know.

Mason knows though that he could never go through with it. He has never been strong enough, has always made his way through life and later through un-life with a charming smile and a few well-placed words. And if that didn't work, he went for the booze and the drugs. It's easier in America where they all simply _love _his accent and his mannerisms. In a way, it has become a second kind of home for him. He remembers his first home with a kind of dull ache sometimes- it's in the way he listens to old records and wears his gloves with the British flag on them. He doesn't really know what he wants to express when he does so, only knows that he needs to satisfy the longing in his chest for a green island with storm-blown coastlines and a great city with white-bricked buildings where everyone's accent is like his- all clear corners and sharply-cut syllables.

When he was alive over there though he always wished to be somewhere else- he had always been of the opinion that life had to offer more than what it offered him- no work, no money and shady friends. He had been looking for the permanent high, the permanent escape in a way. He had imagined he'd be locked away in a corner of his mind somewhere, away from his miserable existence that included too many nights out in the streets, no food, no job and too many cold glares and cold eyes. Only after he had been dead had he realised how idiotic he had been. It might have been a miserable life- but the job situation had started to get better after his death and Britain's joining of the European Union. If only he had not done it. He might have been drunk but he had known- and he remembers it now although he would never admit to it- that he might die due to what he was doing to himself. He had simply not cared at that time. Anything had seemed better than living at that moment. But afterwards he had realised- it might have been a miserable life, but it had been his life.

Now, when he looks in the mirror, he sees a young boy, making his way through the rubbles of a destroyed house, then along a street through red-bricked houses and up a long staircase to a small flat, face and clothes smeared with soot and other unidentifiable substances. "Mum, I'm home." (He had earned a lecture for his appearance. "Good God, lad, d'you think these garments wash themselves?").

He remembers a young American G.I., face like a polished black button and a bar of dark chocolate- "Want some?"

Later, he remembers dropping out of school at the age of fourteen, working as a paper-boy, as a ware-houser, as a shoeshine boy, as a cook - anything to bring money home.

His Mum had been suffering from a bad cough for as long as he could remember-working in the factory for a long time- but when he had turned sixteen she had started to cough up blood. Half a year later she had been dead and him and Mary had been left alone.

Mary had found work as a maid and as luck would have it, she caught the eye of a rich man who took her in. He had urged her to go- content with the knowledge that his sister had food, a warm place to sleep and clothes. Only later did he wonder what she must have sacrificed for that position. He had never asked her if she was happy.

The last memory he has of her is how she looked at him reproachfully, looking elegant clad in a white coat, hair up in the latest fashion: "Look at yourself. Don't you care anymore?" "I do," he had protested because she was his little sister and she had used to worship him when they had been younger. "Come with me," she had urged. "I can help you."

"No," he had retorted roughly and had turned away, "I can look after myself."

After that it had been drugs and sex and rock'n'roll and booze and more drugs and maybe too many of them because when he looks in that mirror he sees it in perfect detail: Outside the music was blaring loudly- _Ba-Ba-Barbara Ann_- by the Beach boys; he was standing in front of a mirror with googles over his eyes; he was holding a drill in his hands and he was on his way to the perfect high. _Ba-ba-Barbara Ann_ the music was blaring while he brought the drill to his head. _Ba-ba-Barbara Ann_ it still went cheerily when he fell to the floor- dead.

They threw his body in the Thames and others fished him out a day later. He doesn't know where they buried him, doesn't know how they buried him, doesn't know if Mary was there, doesn't know if she cried.

"It is not fair," he had told his head reaper, a distinguished English gentleman named Charles Proctor who had been shot in a duel in the late 19th Century.

"As far as I know, lad, you did this to yourself," Charles had said calmly, stirring his milky tea with a silver spoon.

"I know, I know. I just-I wanted to find- I guess, the place beyond the rainbow," he had replied with a somewhat self-deprecating laugh, remembering the Wizard of Oz- his mother had loved that movie. She had always told him that his father had taken her to see it while he had been on leave from the Royal Navy and she had been pregnant with her first child- him, Mason.

"We are not to know what comes next, my boy," Charles had replied patiently.

He had stared past him. "I have been so stupid. I remember the morning of that day- it was a clear sunny morning and the buildings were outlined clearly against the sky, all sharp lines and intense colours. The trees' leaves tumbled down all around me, gold and yellow and red. The world was so beautiful…"

Charles had looked at him sharply over his old-fashioned golden-rimmed glasses. "But why are you complaining, lad? You still get a chance to make the best of it. You should drink up while you still can." He had motioned to Mason's beverage, a glass of water. Charles had kept him grounded liked the father he had never had for a long time, away from the drugs and alcohol, but then he had had his last reap and Mason had been sent away, across the ocean, into a foreign country where no-one spoke like he did and no-one drank milky tea with no sugar and a silver spoon.

He fell back into an old routine, drugs and alcohol all the while. The 80s were a wild time, full of opportunities of that kind and he couldn't help it.

In reality he has never been good at that part of his job- the coping part.

One day, after he has been abstinent for some time- sometimes he really tries to deal without his addictions- he happens to reap a father. A father with a family; a small daughter, a loving wife. He has never had a daughter or a wife and that man who he has never met makes him feel ashamed. He wants to say that he should be a grandfather by now, married with children who have lively bright-eyed children of their own, running around in London and staring at the glittering water of the Thames on a sunny day like he had used to do. But instead he can just stand there silently, while the man yells at him to leave his family alone.

After delivering the soul, he walks through back streets in a clown costume and remembers that mirror. He nearly laughs, as the irony of the whole situation hits him. He is a conundrum- he is an old man, yet he does not look like it. He should be dead, yet he is not. He was so close to that man's happiness, his daughter, his family that he could have touched it yet he is damned to ever staying outside, watching, but never taking part. He is dressed as a damned clown and that seems to be about the only thing that fits.

He exchanges a wad of dollar bills for the cheap hooch of a vagrant and takes a long swig. "Cheerio, mate," he exhales, suddenly tired. "Drink it up while you still can."

A day later he sits besides George on a park bench, watching red and yellow leaves tumble down from the trees. George has just finished her reap and she looks gloomy and down-trodden.

"Eh, I think Millie's looking better," he says out of the blue, talking about George's alter ego and the way she looks to strangers.

"Yeah?" George mumbles. "Really?"

"Yeah- less like she's taking drugs, more like she's just a heavy drinker."

For some reason George isn't cheered up- alright he knows why- but she manages a short snort and a smile. That is better than nothing.

"Do you have regrets, Mason?" she asks suddenly.

Mason looks at her askance. One of George's most fascinating traits is that she can surprise him all the time.

"Everyone has regrets, Georgie," he says finally.

"Yeah, I know." That isn't what she wanted to hear. "But you- you never say anything, Mason. You speak a lot, yet you don't say anything about- you know, before." She looks at him earnestly. "I would listen, you know."

Mason considers her statement for a while, then leans back. "I feel very old today, Georgie," he replies finally. "Very, very old."

She screws her face up at him. "You are not old, Mason."

"Oh, but I am," Mason says wearily, remembering London on a clear day in Autumn 1966, the buildings outlined lithely against the sky, the leaves red and yellow and crinkling under his feet, the sun warm and beautiful, the river glittering in the sunshine and a young man who died that day.

"I am. Older than you would know."


End file.
